


Promise

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BROTHERS2INFINITY, Brotherly Love, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heartbreak, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Memories, Minor Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line, and yet be so full of hope and love at the same time?, how can Steve and Bucky's story have so much pain and loss, songs/music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:56:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: “Next year,” Bucky whispered. “Next year…”Steve silently finished the sentence as Bucky’s voice trailed off.…we’ll be home.“Next year,” he whispered back.A sigh.“Promise?”The word was soft, too quiet for normal ears to hear. But Steve heard.Without thinking, he slipped his right hand into Bucky’s left. “Promise.”Steve and Bucky's story, told through the song "I'll Be Home for Christmas (If Only In My Dreams)" from World War II to 'Ten Years Later'.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griselda_Banks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Banks/gifts).



> I know this is late, terribly late... but is it? Shouldn't every day be Christmas in our hearts? Sorry, something like this, that is so full of life's inevitable mingling of darkness and light, can make me poetic. XD Especially when it came to mean a great deal to me personally.  
> Anyway, this ties into all my other fics, of course, covering pretty much the whole course of their history, all the way out into the post-Endgame world, which is happily mine for the creating. It fits with the Two Steves Endgame fix-it that I accept, which is movie canon compliant. (If you have any questions, go ahead and ask, but it will be explained in detail in upcoming fics.)  
> There is a very special place in my heart for Christmas music, and I ended up sprinkling it through this whole thing, _just_ enough. I think ;) Specific recordings of songs that I wrote in, are listed at the end.
> 
> Don't know what else to say, so...  
> Couldn't have pulled this together without Ari, who did... way more than she probably thinks. (I love you, girl, and I'm still humbled to be your friend.) And thanks to Rachael, for digging in the trenches beside me.
> 
> Grizz...  
> Okay, I'm choking up, and I don't even know what to say. You know, as much as anyone else possibly can, what an experience writing this turned out to be.  
> I did it, I'm done, and now I offer this gift to you. From my heart.  
> I hope you like it. I hope you think it's worth it. Because it is for me.  
> I love you. To the end of the line... and beyond.  
> Merry Christmas!  
> "I thank my God upon every remembrance of you."
> 
> Yes, all this, and Jesus too! All this, and Jesus too!

For Caro, who fights for me. 

**_But I know that although we may never understand it, there is a plan, and though it may be traced in pain, in the end there will be joy, and it will be beautiful._ **

-Donna VanLiere, _The Christmas Blessing_

* * *

_Christmas Day 2033_

_The house is getting quiet now._

_Kitchen’s clean, all the dishes washed. All the wrapping paper and bows and string and other bits of packaging have been picked up… except for a scrap Bucky sees behind the armchair. It bugs him enough that he goes to pick it up and toss it in the fire._

_All the half-built LEGO sets and half-read books have been put away on shelves, or carted off to bed with their respective owners. Bucky cocks his head, listening for the thump of little feet on the floor upstairs, Ellie’s laughter, Sharon calling for JoJo, bathwater running._

_Bucky has already taken the dogs out for a quick tramp around the yard, and now they’re all back in the living room, warming up and drying off. Squire and old Colonel, the two goldens, have passed out in front of the fire, but Ariel, Bucky’s husky, keeps her distance from the heat, choosing to lie along the floor by the couch. She watches Bucky intently._

_He walks to the couch, flops down, and rests his feet on her back. Ari twists her head to sniff at his socks. The stereo is playing softly._

_Bucky shivers a little and pulls his feet up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around his legs. He’s glad of the big, fuzzy sweater Steve had given him this year. (All his favorite sweaters and warmest socks were Christmas gifts from Steve.)_

_They haven’t had a white Christmas since Sarah was born, but it started last night as they were heading to the midnight service at Grace, and has been falling steadily ever since. Bucky can see the flakes piling up on the sill of the front window, thanks to the east wind that brought it, and he allows himself a little smile._

_They’d gone tobogganing that afternoon, on the hill at the Marshall’s next door, and it had turned all of them into children. Bucky hadn’t even minded when he fell off and got a face full of snow; Ellie’s little girl giggles and Ariel’s warm kisses on his cheeks had banished any hint of dark memories._

_He feels chilled now, though._

_Ari lifts her head suddenly, and Bucky follows her glance over his right shoulder to see Steve standing in the archway from the hall. His t-shirt is rumpled, with a couple damp-looking spots, he’s wearing jeans with stained knees, and his feet are bare._

_“Hey,” he says, smiling, and the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights and the fire play over his face; picking out the smile lines, and making his eyes soft and gentle as they hold Bucky’s._

_Steve notices how Bucky is hunching his shoulders, even in this warm room with the fire going. He is about to go to him, to flop down on the couch and let Bucky stretch out on top of him, when Bucky stands and steps toward Steve._

_He meets his friend halfway, opening his arms for Bucky to step into. He sees that Bucky has a small smile on his lips, before he is pressing against Steve, looping his mismatched arms around Steve’s waist and resting his head on Steve’s shoulder._

_Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s back, propping his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. He can feel Bucky’s breathing, soft against his neck, and he runs his hands up and down the other man’s spine, gentle, but firm enough to raise some warmth._

_The fire is crackling, Colonel snoring, and the stereo is playing softly…_

_The song makes him go still._

_A moment, before Bucky makes a soft noise of recognition._

_He pulls back enough to look Steve in the face, and he is smiling; the light in the room catching in his eyes._

_Steve cannot help it, his own lips are curving up, and he lets his hands slide up behind Bucky’s neck, catching his right wrist in his other hand to steady his hold there._

_Still without speaking, they lean forward, resting their foreheads together, and Steve realizes that they are swaying slightly, in time to the music._

_“See?” Bucky finally whispers, and Steve has no answer because there is a lump in his throat and the room is a blur of light, and he needs to pull Bucky back in, feel their chests pressed together, the throb of Bucky’s heartbeat._

_He tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair, which has gotten long again, presses his cheek against his head, closes his eyes._

_Finds the steady pulse of Bucky’s heart._

_Yeah, he can see. He can see it now._

∞ ∞ ∞

Christmas Day, 1943

The fire snapped and sent sparks spiralling upwards, to join the thin stream of smoke that drifted towards the stars. The orange glow was soft on the faces of the men gathered round.

Dum-Dum Dugan sat cross-legged, arms resting on his knees, pipe in his mouth as he stared into the flames. Jim Morita perched on the edge of a log, cutting an apple with his knife, humming snatches of a Christmas carol. Private Lisle was hunched over a writing tablet, frequently stopping to suck the end of his pencil. Frenchie and Gabe sat with their feet stretched out toward the warmth, chattering over a game of cards played on a smooth slab of stone that they had appropriated from a bombed-out house. Falsworth sprawled on his back with his head propped on Gabe’s knee, silent, staring up into the sky.

Another couple fires had sprung up nearby and soldiers were laughing, chatting, singing snatches of song. There was the sound of a harmonica, and now someone started making the rounds with a bag of what Steve guessed to be oranges, from the men’s exclamations.

Steve sucked in a breath of cold air, tasted the wood and tobacco smoke, and glanced up as someone approached from the direction of the command tents.

“Carter,” he said, automatically beginning to push himself to his feet, but she gave him a half-cross, half-amused look.

“Please don’t. I’m off duty. We all are.” Peggy looked… tired, and she came to stand by Steve, acknowledging the other men’s greetings with a nod.

Steve quietly shuffled over, and she sat next to him, cross-legged like Dum-Dum. She was warmly dressed in a parka and pants; Steve thought she looked wonderful, with her hair down for once, but he squashed the warm stirring in his stomach.

“Where’s Barnes?”

Steve blinked at Peggy, then glanced around suddenly.

“He was here a minute ago.”

“More than a minute, Rogers.” Dum-Dum pulled his pipe from between his lips. “You’ve been sitting there daydreaming for at least half-an-hour.”

“Not that long,” Morita corrected. He caught Steve’s eye. “Saw him head for the tents maybe ten minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” Steve gave the other soldier a nod as he stood, and headed for the tent he and Bucky had shared for the last few days, since they rejoined the 107th for the holidays.

It had been a good day, for the most part. An early service with some carol singing, and then an afternoon of relaxing and drying out. The temperature hovered around freezing all day, but the air was dry and the sun had warmed them all.

The 107th had been pulled back from the front a week ago, while Steve and his handful of chosen men were still deep in the mountains, decimating a HYDRA supply line, and gathering more of the intelligence needed to raid the first of the actual bases.

For Steve it had been six hard weeks of learning on the job, a job where lives hung in his hands. But it was everything he’d ever wanted. He could feel it in the men—that rag-tag group that had pulled around him on the trek back to the American camp from Krausburg— _his_ men.

Sure, there had been some disputes and a scuffle or two, as they felt each other out, settled into their roles. But then would come those moments when everything clicked, and every man was exactly where he needed to be, and a trio of perfectly placed shots would take out the guys running at Steve… and Steve would flash a quick grin toward the bullets’ place of origin, even as he turned to send his shield smashing into the engine of another vehicle.

He was a soldier, fighting to stop the worst kind of bullies. And he was doing it with his best friend by his side, or watching his back. Most of the time anyway.

“Hey, Buck?” He ducked under the tent flap and stood in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust. “Bucky?” He could hear someone breathing, one cot creaked traitorously, and he picked out the vague shape of a man sitting on the edge of the one to Steve’s right.

Steve’s hesitation lasted five heartbeats, before he stepped across in the dark and sat beside Bucky, allowing some space between them.

For a few minutes neither man spoke.

Okay, this was one thing Steve hadn’t wanted. This new side of Bucky, this dark side.

Yes, Bucky still laughed and joked and worked hard, with the same cocky confidence Steve had always known. But at the same time, whatever hell HYDRA dragged him through had left its marks: the nightmares; the chills; the sudden silences when he would withdraw from a conversation, sometimes just mentally, sometimes physically.

Bucky never talked about his experiences, aside from the report to Colonel Philips, which had given Steve enough information to keep his fire to fight HYDRA burning for a long time yet. But Steve almost found that… okay. Because, if he were honest with himself there was a lot of stuff _he_ ’d seen and experienced, over the last six months, which he didn’t always know how to put into words either.

Something had shifted between them. But somehow Steve couldn’t be afraid of it. Because even as he saw a difference, he would see how the two of them shifted to accommodate that difference.

Steve heard Bucky clasping his hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Sorry.” Bucky’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it sounded loud in the tent.

“For what?”

“I… dunno.” A huff escaped Buck, a sound that carried just about every emotion, good and bad.

Now it was Steve who moved, pressing his shoulder into Bucky’s, mirroring his friend’s posture so that their upper arms aligned, and Steve felt Bucky lean right back into him.

“I never thought I say something like this,” Bucky mumbled. “But I’m glad… you’re here.” He cleared his throat. “Real glad.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

He felt Bucky relaxing against him, his head tilting to rest on Steve’s shoulder. Some things were just easier in the dark.

A sigh. “Mom’s letter was addressed to both of us.”

“I can read it later.” Aunt Winnie always treated Steve like a beloved nephew; never trying to actually be his mother, but still making sure he knew he was loved and cared for by the whole Barnes family. “How are they doing?”

“Good. Becca’s little girl they call ‘Win’. But JB keeps calling her ‘Windy’.” A rusty chuckle. “Twins have each had two proposals.”

“And they turned both of them down, because they still want to try to make it as movie stars in California.”

The laugh was shared now; quiet, comfortable, familiar.

Steve tilted his head to rest against Bucky’s, his friend’s hair against his cheek. Because this was Bucky, and he was Steve. And they’d made it through everything they’d faced before, so they’d make it through this too. Together.

“We’ll make it home.” Bucky’s voice was tired, somehow frayed, despite the confident words. “We’ll make it back. Next Christmas…”

Steve’s lips curled in a little smile, because now he knew what Bucky was thinking about, now he could see. “We’ll be having supper at your house.”

“And you’ll be there, all big and strong, and maybe that Carter girl, too–”

“Hey there, pal.” Steve nudged his elbow into Bucky’s ribs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Aw, you’ll figure it out.” He could _hear_ Bucky’s mild amusement. “I see the way you look at her. You ain’t never looked at a girl like that before.”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbled, ducking his head, even though no one was watching him.

“And… I guess… I’ll be there with Connie, and the girls’ll bring their beaus, if they still have any. And Becca and Frank’ll maybe have another. Maybe it’ll be another boy. James Steven.”

Steve snorted.

“Next year,” Bucky whispered. “Next year…”

Steve silently finished the sentence as Bucky’s voice trailed off. _…we’ll be home._

“Next year,” he whispered back.

A sigh.

“Promise?”

The word was soft, too quiet for normal ears to hear. But Steve heard.

Without thinking, he slipped his right hand into Bucky’s left. “Promise.”

Bucky’s hand gripped his—hard, hard. Until both of them breathed again. Until Bucky’s pulse in his wrist, pressed against Steve’s, settled into the same rhythm as Steve’s. Because things could change without changing a bit.

Silence in the tent for a time.

The sounds of music and a fiddle playing came to them, and they stirred.

“Guess we better get going.”

“Before they think we snuck off to Ortona, and left them behind.”

Bucky snorted. “They’d be mad as hell.”

They ducked out of the tent, and strolled across the rough ground, following the sound of Dum-Dum’s solid baritone, and Monty’s easy tenor, softer now than they sometimes were.

_“I’ll be home for Christmas._

_You can plan on me…”_

They didn’t look at each other, just slowed as they approached the group, letting themselves blend in with the other soldiers who had fallen silent, listening to the voices that carried on the still night air. Specialist Ramsey stood behind Dum-Dum, the soft keen of his fiddle lending to the bittersweet words.

Steve thought they sounded even better than Bing Crosby himself.

_“Christmas Eve will find me,_

_Where the love light gleams…”_

He linked his arm through Bucky’s as they quietly paced the last of the way to the circle of their team, these men—and woman—whose lives depended on each other. Who could only see the way safely home _together._

_“…I’ll be home for Christmas,_

_If only in my dreams.”_

He glanced over, saw the light flickering in Bucky’s eyes. The tired lines were softened, muted, and the hardness that sometimes showed around his mouth was gone.

Bucky was smiling. And that made Steve smile too.

***

Christmas Day, 2012

Steve sat in shadowy half-darkness, the smells of his chicken supper and the peppermint tea that had gone cold in his mug, lingering in the air. The radio in the corner was turned low enough that Steve could just hear it, if he payed attention.

The sun had long slipped below the horizon, and night lay over New York City. But the city’s ambiance kept Steve’s apartment in a perpetual twilight.

He felt no desire to get up and turn on a light, he felt no desire to do anything at all. Part of him wished he had not turned down Pastor Renn’s invitation for dinner at the midnight service. But he would have been just another fish out of water in the middle of the pastor’s sprawling messy family.

And then there had been the invitation from Tony Stark; that had been an easy ‘no’. No fancy wine-and-dine for him. He knew Tony’s type, even if he hadn’t actually spent much time with him; all flash and bling and sparkle. No, Steve didn’t fit in with that either.

Probably this was the only place where he fit. In darkness, in silence, in solitude. Perched on an edge somewhere between existence and emptiness; half in the past, half in the future. What was _supposed_ to be the future. Now it was the present. Steve’s present.

In the shadows here, he could feel the unreality of it all, a creeping feeling, as if he were slowly slipping out of his body, drifting away somewhere, down, down, down–

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his left hand jerking involuntarily, and the tea sloshed in his mug.

_No, nonono. Do not go there. Do not._

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them in a hurry. _Oh, God, no._

He stood with a jerk, chair scraping the floor. Before he was sitting down once more, but slow, controlled. It was Christmas Day. He was not going to the gym on Christmas Day, not going to spoil a holy day like this with sweat and blood and broken sand bags.

Huh. He’d have to find a new gym in DC. Probably wouldn’t be a problem; any gym would _love_ to have _Captain America_ as a member. Hopefully he could find the same kind of old, forgotten place as this one in New York.

He was moving south, first week of January. Nick had a place for him, only twenty minutes’ drive from SHIELD’s headquarters on the Potomac River. Steve had seen the new apartment, not that he really cared. It was as cool and generic as any other place he’d stayed in the last nine months. As much not-home as this apartment.

Nowhere was home now. Home was long gone.

_I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love,_

_Even more than I usually do._

He heard the song on the radio without thinking. Hardly thinking anything.

What was the last place he’d called home?

The memory hit him, taking him in completely.

_His mother was laughing, her eyes alight and cheeks flushed from the heat, as she turned from the oven and held the pan out to him._

_“Careful, Stevie. Sure, they’re hot!”_

_The smell of the gingerbread was intoxicating, and he couldn’t help himself, he was reaching out for one of the little brown man-figures—and then the tips of his fingers were singed, before his mother could pull the pan away._

_“Ouch!” He stuck his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them guiltily._

_Sarah clicked her tongue, setting the pan down on the wooden cutting board on the counter. “Stick your fingers under the cold water, and I’ll get a bit of snow in a cup.”_

Like a dream spiralling away, his mother’s voice and the smells and sensations of the moment faded away and he was back in the darkness, and a woman was singing on the radio.

_I’ll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams_

It was only instrumental then, and he felt the tears filling his eyes, hot and unbidden.

Everything had changed after his mother died. She had been his sun and moon and guiding constellations. She had been everything that ‘home’ was supposed to mean. Without her… the world itself had stopped spinning.

And yet, it hadn’t. Not completely. Because even in that darkness, Bucky had been there. Bucky, the friend who became his brother, who seemed to fit into Steve’s life as if there had always been a place at Steve’s side made just for him.

It was Bucky who had held him and loved him and guided him, step-by-faltering-step through the night, until slowly, ever so slowly the earth began to turn again and time began to mean something… and the sun came up. Never as bright, never quite as warm. But still there. Still itself.

That had been its own kind of home, his and Bucky’s. Their tiny apartment, with the ragged couch and the one bed, and the old tin wash tank that had been their bathtub. They’d scraped and struggled, but were determined to make it on their own, and they’d succeeded. Maybe that place hadn’t been much to look at. But it had been _theirs_.

And if either of them ever needed a truly decent meal, they could just turn up on Aunt Winnie and Uncle George’s doorstep, and they’d be fed and hugged and generally fussed over, until the minute they left.

Home had taken on a different meaning, the world had settled on its new axis, and it had been… good. He and Bucky taking on the world and everything it threw at them. Together. Always together.

_Christmas Eve will find me…_

_There was a blizzard, and Bucky said, “Like hell we’re trekkin’ across town to catch you a cold. We’ll just have to see them all in the morning. Or whenever this dies down.”_

_“That might be a day or two,” Steve pointed out, from where he stood in the kitchen, staring out at the swirl of white._

_“All the more time off work then!” Bucky threw himself down on the couch, stretching out full length, and putting his hands behind his head. Steve filled two glasses with milk, and piled a plate with the macaroons Liza had dropped off yesterday. He perched the glasses on the edges of the plate and carefully carried it all into the living room, where he set it on the card table._

_“Well,” he shrugged, sitting down on Bucky’s feet and making him groan, pull his feet away, and sit up. “Guess we’ll have to make the best of it.”_

_So, they sat on the couch, facing each other with a blanket over their legs, and ate and joked and Bucky read while Steve touched up the drawings he was giving to the various members of the Barnes family. And then Steve got up to find his mother’s Bible and they turned out the lights, and by the light of three candles, he read the Christmas story from Luke, the way she always had for him._

_Bucky sat quietly, and Steve glanced up to see the candle flames flickering in his eyes, and to his surprise it was Bucky who started singing: “Silent night, holy night…”_

_They fell asleep on the couch, keeping each other warm, and woke in the morning to a world frosted eight inches deep in snow._

He was crying in the dark, silent as a stone, tears sliding down his cheeks.

_I’ll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams._

And now the singers were two men, and there was firelight in the faces gathered round: Dum-Dum and Monty, of course, and Jim, Gabe, Frenchie, young Lisle, Ramsey with the fiddle, Peggy, Bucky…

Steve did not recognize the sound that escaped his lips. Because he could see him, see Bucky—rough and dirty and war-weary—but with a light in his eyes.

He felt something tearing in his chest, a physical pain that seemed it would stop his heart, because that light was gone, Bucky was gone, Bucky was dead, and once more the world was dark and the earth had fallen away, and who was there to lead him through the night this time?

“Dear God,” was the broken whisper, before his head went down, and he buried his face in his arms.

***

Christmas Eve, 2015

He heard it in Italy, of all places.

Of all places to hear a song, to hear _that_ song.

He sat alone, tucked in the far corner of the bar that ran along the front window, flesh hand wrapped around the hot mug, feeling the heat in his fingers. He kept his metal hand buried in the pocket of his jacket.

Bucky (because _he’_ d called him Bucky, and _James_ only fit in the mouths of strangers as a weak cover, meaning nothing to his mind, to his heart) had his back against one wall, but sat angled so he could watch the street outside and the interior of the coffee shop with only the slightest tilt of his head in either direction. (One thing _they_ hadn’t given him was eyes in the back of his head.)

He inhaled the steam rising from his drink, blew on it, watched the dark liquid ripple. He drank it black. Because. Because… that’s how he remembered it. He had tried it with sugar and cream, and it was… good. Sweet. But not _right._

 _Right_ was poured out of the pot in Aunt Sarah’s kitchen, two young men tiptoeing around at an unearthly hour of the morning. _Right_ was a mug filled beside a campfire, tasting old and smoky and as tired as the men that drank it. _Right_ … was gone. Long gone. _This_ was a drink payed for, in a little old Italian coffeehouse. (Not the kind with part of his name in it: _Starbucks._ Yes, he thought that was funny.) But this was close—and if close was all he could get, then he would take it.

A child cried, complaining that the cookie he had been given didn’t have enough chocolate in it. A couple sat facing each other, holding hands and forgetting about their drinks. The old man with the newspaper hummed to himself; Bucky didn’t recognize the tune.

What was he even doing here? Looking for answers, he always told himself.

_Answers to what?_

_To questions, stupid._

His ears caught another strain of music, though, leaking through the thick glass of the front window. He couldn’t help turning his head, to stare directly out into the street, searching. Because he _knew_ that song.

_…Disperse the gloomy clouds of night_

_And death’s dark shadows put to flight_

_Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel_

_Shall come to thee, O Israel_

It was a small crowd, bundled up against the cold, that halted on the sidewalk in front of the coffeehouse. Americans, mostly 20-something; students, maybe, or adventurer seekers. 7, 8, 9 of them. Bucky stilled, ducking his head, watching them without looking at them.

They came through the door on a draught of winter wind, all high spirits and bright smiles, immediately catching the attention of everyone else in the café. The little boy stopped crying. The couple glanced up. A lady, who had been hunched over her phone at the counter, turned around.

The air was changed—infused now with something vibrant and hopeful and… happy. Bucky could see it catching in the faces, in the voice of Daniele, the shop owner, who paused in wiping down the counter: _“Buon Natale!”_

“All right, guys,” called a tall redhead. “Time to sing for your supper.”

“It’s coffee not supper,” someone retorted, but he waved the comment aside, and the others moved quickly, lining up along the front of the shop.

Bucky went still as stone, back pressed against the wall, as the closest singer stood six feet away, but their back was turned, and they didn’t seem to notice he was there.

“Adeste Fideles,” came the command, and they struck up with a will.

_Adeste fideles læti triumphantes  
Venite, venite in Bethlehem…_

Latin hadn’t been on the list of languages HYDRA had given him. At least, he didn’t think so. Because it was different from Italian, and… but that wasn’t the point. He knew this song. But not because of _them._

_O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!_

_O come ye, o come ye, to Bethlehem…_

He knew it because he’d heard it sung again and again, echoing back through his old life into his childhood. A woman’s sweet voice, a full choir reaching for Heaven, a man singing strong.

Pain balled in his throat, because that was _his_ voice, _Steve’s voice_ , and Bucky hunched over his coffee, took a sip that almost-not-quite burned his lips, welcoming the sensation to ground him.

The closest singer was a blond young man, and Bucky noticed how the back of his head looked almost identical to the man next to him, the other was probably an inch shorter. And then he saw they way they stood, hands in their pockets, less than a foot apart; the one nearest Bucky, angled toward the other. _Brothers._

_O come let us adore Him_

_O come let us adore Him_

_O come let us adore Him_

_Christ the Lord!_

Bucky could see the faces beyond them: the woman at the counter singing along, the child laughing, the old man nodding in time to the music.

Laughter, applause, calls for another song. There was joy in the air of the café, a glow between the singers and their audience.

And Bucky watched from the shadows.

The carolers (that’s what they were called!) launched into an Italian carol, one Bucky had heard several times in the last weeks he’d spent drifting around this little country, into France and back, looking for what he never knew. Looking for something he could never seem to find.

Then they moved to the front counter, where all the smells and steams were coming from, and Daniele took their orders, laughing and jabbering in his broken English as he moved, pouring from one pot and then another, stirring two or three drinks at once. It was one of the blond men who started another song while they waited.

_Hark! the herald angles sing_

_Glory to the newborn king…_

Bucky caught the smile the brothers exchanged, perhaps sharing some memory, and turned away, staring blindly down at his cup of coffee.

_“Aw, come on, Buck.” Steve rolled his eyes and grinned. “You’re not nearly as bad a singer as you think. You’re usually on key and keep the tune. Which is more than I can say for some of the guys in the choir even.”_

_“Yeah, I just sound like a dog growling along.”_

_“Blarney.” Steve threw his hat at Bucky, who caught it, flung it back so it landed on Steve’s head. “You sound dandy.”_

_Bucky shrugged. “I’d rather just listen to you.”_

_“Come on, we’re gonna be late.” Steve had the door open, a cold draught curling around Bucky’s ankles._

_“It’s still only eleven-thirty.” Bucky followed him out into the darkness, heading to the midnight service._

_The light gleaming on Steve’s fair hair vanished as Bucky switched the light off, and shut the door behind them._

Bucky’s inhale was ragged, the memory splintering into shards that pierced his heart, slicing it open to expose the aching loneliness he always tried so hard to bury. Because _he_ was always like that. Steve _was_ light and laughter and warmth; everything Bucky craved, everything Bucky couldn’t have.

He swallowed back almost half his coffee, trying to banish the lump in his throat. The intensity of his longing made it hard to breathe. But the warmth of the liquid flowed through him, causing something tight and cold inside him to uncurl ever so slightly. He shook his head, shut his eyes, and did something he knew he shouldn’t. He let himself imagine it was Steve’s voice singing.

_…Light and Life to all He brings_

_Risen with healing in His wings_

_Mild He lays His glory by_

_Born that man no more may die…_

_Hark! The herald angels sing_

_Glory to the newborn king!_

The child was clapping, the air was thick with the bittersweet smell of coffee, cars passed on the street, and Bucky saw his refection in the glass: dark eyes glinting wetly in a worn, bearded face; long hair down to his shoulders; a gleam of metal below the table, before he shoved his hand back into his coat pocket.

He remembered a flash of sunlight on metal. He remembered blood and a bomb and two bullets to make sure and a child screaming as the man crumpled to the pavement beside him.

The stirring he had felt inside vanished, leaving only the hard and the cold, harder and colder than before. A moan slipped between his lips, and Bucky shoved his other hand into his hair, strands tangling around his fingers almost tight enough to cut them, pain across his scalp.

 _Monster. Monster with blood on your hands._ It was only a whisper, but the voice might as well have screamed in his mind.

 _I didn’t want to,_ he thought back. _I never wanted to!_

_But I killed them._

A gust of cold air hit him, jerking him out of the chaos of his own mind, and he gasped a couple quick breaths, taking in everything he could, trying to ground himself in his surroundings.

Young people scattered at various tables, laughing and drinking. The parents now out on the sidewalk, their son walking between them; it must have been them opening the door. The old man putting his newspaper down to lean over and say something to a brown-haired girl sitting near him.

“Hey, Ed!” Her voice cut across the chatter. “Eddie.”

The slightly taller of the blond boys turned in his chair. “Yeah?”

“This man asked for ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’. Mind doing it? just the two of you?”

A glance between the two young men, before they stood at the same time, turning so Bucky could see their faces clearly, could pick out the differences and the similarities.

No fanfare, no throat clearing, just a 1 2 3 count in the nodding of their heads, and then everything else went still.

_“I’m dreaming tonight, of a place I love_

_Even more than I usually do._

_And although I know it’s a long road back_

_I promise you…_

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t, his heart breaking under the weight of his terrible longing.

_I’ll be home for Christmas._

_You can count on me…”_

It was two young men singing in a café, and it was two soldiers singing around a campfire, a fiddle crooning beneath them, and there was Steve and he said, _“Promise.”_

_“Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the love light gleams…”_

And it wasn’t firelight in Steve’s eyes, it was tears, and the blood was _his_ and he was dying under the Soldier _(Bucky)_ ’s hands. And Steve was light and warmth and pain and _love,_ and he looked at the man whose fist was about to crush his skull, and…

Bucky was a shadow, slipping from the coffeehouse, and down the street. It was Steve’s voice mixing with the music– No, drowning it out.

_“Then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”_

The tears were hot on his cold cheeks.

_…I’ll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams…_

_Home_ was a mom and a dad and three little girls crowded around a Christmas tree. _Home_ was a tiny apartment with a candle and a song. _Home_ was a blond man with blue eyes and a smile that lit up a room and a heart that bled into his eyes. _Home_ … was gone.

_Gone._

All _gone?_

Gone from Bucky’s reach.

 _Home_ was nothing he could touch with his bloodstained hands. _Home_ was all he wanted, but _hell_ was what he deserved.

He stopped on the sidewalk, stared up into a sky of broken cloud. He blinked, found a cold gleam of starlight through the tears.

Somewhere, under these same stars—somewhere, far away—Steve was… there. Out there. Alive.

Maybe still looking for Bucky. But probably not. _He shouldn’t._ _He shouldn’t look for me._ I _can’t even find me._

All that Bucky could find was broken, stained, worthless; a twisted mockery of the faces that stared out of memorials and history books. And memories.

He could almost see Steve smiling, the light falling across his face, the way his eyes had laughed at Bucky. The Bucky that had been. The Bucky that was no longer.

His mouth opened in a silent cry, before another gust of cold wind hit his back, strong enough rock him forwards. He blinked, felt the warm drops slide down his cheek, and he was alone in the darkness, wrapped in cold air; he was just another shadow drifting down the street.

The despair tore at him, and he was moving again, walking. Where he was going, he didn’t know. Just not _home._ _Home_ was Steve, and he couldn’t go to Steve. Not now, probably not ever.

He couldn’t go home for Christmas.

He could never go home again.

***

Christmas Day, 2016

It was definitely time for bed. The glowing numbers on the kitchen wall told Steve as much: 11:32.

Natasha and Sam had both said their goodnights already, Steve waving Sam away from the stack of dishes in the kitchen sink: “You do enough already. Buck and I got this.”

Indeed, it was Bucky who had figured out the Wakandan dishwasher, which was somehow terrifyingly advanced and deceptively simple at the same time. He had gone to tidy the living room, while Steve finished loading the last of the dirty dishes.

It had been a good day. No, not perfect—and a well-intentioned joke, which ended with Bucky hiding in the bathroom trying not to be sick or break down, hadn’t helped. But good wasn’t about being perfect; it was about making the best of what you had. And Steve had Bucky and Sam and Nat, and that was enough.

“I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me,” Steve was singing softly, as he wiped down the counter, and rinsed out the dish cloth. “Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents under the tree.”

Yeah, the words had changed a bit, as Sam pointed out, but Steve had heard it in the 21st century more times than he ever heard it in the war.

He draped the damp cloth over the oven door handle, and wandered out to the living room, where everything was neat and tidy again, and only the lamp by the couch still glowed.

The east wall of the room was all glass, and Bucky stood close by it, his back to Steve, staring out into the night. He gave no sign he had heard Steve.

The song died on Steve’s lips, and he walked forward quietly until he stood just to Bucky’s right, slipping his hands into his pockets.

For a moment they both stood and watched the lights of Birnin Zana, the Golden City, the jewel of Wakanda, and it suddenly hit Steve that they were the first outsiders in however many hundreds of years to be treated to this view by invitation. No, it wasn’t Brooklyn, or even Manhattan; it wasn’t New York, that great city he’d called home. But it was safety, it was welcome, it was where he was right now. And it _was_ beautiful.

He shifted his stance, leaning over to bump his shoulder lightly against Buck’s.

“Hey. What's wrong?”

Because something was. Steve knew the slight hunch to his shoulders, the way he had tilted his head so his hair hid his face. Sure, maybe Bucky looked different these days—one arm, long hair, and scars inside and out—but he was still Bucky. And Steve was still Steve.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Steve blinked, wondering if he’d heard the low words correctly. “What do you mean?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t be here; you should be back home. You should be… taking that girl of yours out for dinner, or going to a church service, or… I don’t know. You should be home. You deserve that. Not,” a jerk of his chin, encompassing the view; and everything else, Steve guessed. “Not this.”

Steve heard the pain that bled through the harsh whispers, pain that cut Steve in return. _Oh, Bucky._ He knew where this was coming from, knew the deep insecurities that still ran through Bucky’s heart, so often leaving him shaken. And now, as always, Steve would do the only thing he could: speak the truth, straight from his heart.

“I am home, I guess.” He stepped close enough that their shoulders and upper arms pressed together, letting Bucky _feel_ his presence. The words came slowly. “You’re here. You’re _safe_ here. And that’s where I want to be right now. So as long as you’re here… this _is_ home.”

An odd noise from Bucky, a jerk of his shoulders, and Steve could bear it no longer. His left arm went around Bucky’s shoulders, and he turned toward him, pulling him the rest of the way into his arms.

Bucky did not move to return the embrace, except for letting his head tip forward, resting his cheek on Steve’s shoulder, face still turned away.

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve murmured, and then his throat clogged and he could not say more.

The slightest shake of Bucky’s head. “Don’t. I don’t… deserve… you. I don’t. _I don’t_ _–”_

The hand Steve had rested on the back of Bucky’s head, now covered his mouth; just long enough to make a point, but not frighten him.

“Hush.” Steve’s throat ached, and he turned his head, pressed a soft kiss into his friend’s hair. “Stop. Don’t.”

So often now he found words to never be enough. His best friend—the man he’d called his brother and loved more than any other—had lived in a literal hell for 70 years. He’d been stripped of his humanity, tortured, abused, used as a deadly weapon and treated as such. Then when he’d finally found himself free, had finally begun to rebuild some kind of life, they had torn him apart all over again. Why should he trust anyone again? _How_ could he?

And yet, he did.

Even when he faltered, even when the fears became too loud for him to hear anything else, he was still willing, still willing to risk believing Steve. And maybe it was that fragile but persistent thread of trust that somehow broke and healed Steve’s heart in the same motion.

“I’m the one… who doesn’t deserve to have you back.” He swallowed painfully. “You’re the one… who shouldn’t have to be here.”

He could feel Bucky softening against him, the tension easing out of his back. Bucky’s arm slipped around Steve’s waist, and he was hugging back now.

“But I am.”

Steve closed his eyes, because now it was Bucky trying to reassure him and, no, he didn’t deserve this, but… did that really matter?

“Yeah,” he choked out. “Me too.”

“And I can’t think…” Bucky’s voice trailed off, and he tightened his grip, burying his face deeper in Steve’s sweater. “And I don’t want to be anywhere else,” he mumbled into the fabric.

“Yeah. Me… too.”

There was a long silence then, a silence of shared grief and shared comfort, and they found the one lessened and the other greater for it.

Bucky finally spoke again, his voice barely audible. “’M sorry I didn’t give you a Christmas present. I just– There was nothing–”

A laugh broke out of Steve, and he might have shaken Bucky if he wasn’t hugging him. “You _jerk,”_ he whispered. Steve thought his heart would burst with the sudden overwhelming affection he felt for Bucky. “You _idiot_.”

Bucky was real and solid and warm in his arms, and Steve could _feel_ the darkness that had gripped his heart for what felt like forever lifting. He could feel the world beginning to turn again.

“You did. The best one.” Because Steve honestly didn’t care how sappy or sentimental it came out sounding. “You’re my friend. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Please believe me, please.”

A long shaky inhale for Bucky, before he shook his head.

“Or,” Steve managed around the lump in his throat, “if you can’t, just… promise you’ll try?”

Bucky’s sigh was deep and complete, his whole body melting against Steve in surrender. “I’ll try,” he breathed. “I’ll try. Promise.”

Steve’s eyes caught on a single star, arcing across the sky, and it was only partly Bucky he was talking to when he murmured, “Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas,” Bucky whispered.

Steve’s laugh was half sob. “Merry Christmas, pal.”

He buried his nose above Bucky’s ear, one hand cupping the back of his friend’s neck, before he once more kissed the side of Bucky’s head. He didn’t know how else to say everything he was feeling, and it seemed to be the way Bucky received best anyway. So, Steve just held Bucky close, and let his eyes drift shut.

No, this wasn’t what he’d expected. But it was more than he deserved. And that made it a gift. Because this wasn’t in his dreams.

***

Christmas Day, 2019

That night, Steve didn’t run. He walked.

The midnight service ended at quarter-to-one, and he immediately slipped out, avoiding even Pastor Renn’s handshake and hug, needing the space and the silence.

He walked the dark streets of Brooklyn, past the empty, abandoned houses, past the houses with a light in the window, and past the almost painfully brave houses with Christmas lights strung in the front yard. He walked alone with the stars and the ghosts of his angels.

The pain, he acknowledged, was… quieter this year. Less of the all-consuming grief, and more of the ever-present ache. Yet as he walked mile after mile of pavement and sidewalks, breathed the chill air, and stood high on the bridge staring out at the bay, he found his gaze turning upwards. To the stars.

With half the population gone, New York’s ambient light was greatly reduced, and a soft huff escaped Steve’s lungs as he stared up into the night sky, where a million pinpricks of light winked back at him.

Some were smaller, softer, and the word that came to mind was ‘stardust’. Others were bright, strong, burning steadily from their place in the vastness of the universe.

After everything that had happened, after all of life and everything Steve knew had been altered to a degree he never dreamed possible, even after it seemed that the universe itself should have gone still… the stars shone on.

His eyes traced the lines of the constellations, picking out the Lynx, Cassiopeia, Dracon… the Big Dipper…

_“That’s no bear.” Bucky made a noise of disgust. “I don’t know why people try to say that. My Grandpa told me it’s a water dipper, and when slaves were escaping the South in the Civil War, they always said to ‘follow the drinking gourd.’”_

_“They… drank out of gourds?” Steve frowned, turned his head to eye Bucky, who was sprawled next to him._

_“No, dope. It was their code name. Because their ancestors in Africa drank out of gourds.”_

_“How do you know all this?”_

_“My Grandpa fought in that war. He knows everything. See?” Bucky lifted one arm, and Steve leaned in closer, trying to follow Bucky’s pointing finger with his eyes. “They had to go north to escape, north to get to safety. And if you look at those two stars on the cup of the dipper…” Bucky’s finger traced a line from one to the other. “…and then draw a line with them, and keep going… there.”_

_Steve stared at the star Bucky’s finger had stopped on._

_“That’s the North Star.”_

_“That’s the one that doesn’t move,” Steve whispered. “It always stays in the same place. That’s what Mom said. Everything else revolves around it.”_

_“But when you can’t find it, you find the other stars. The ones that point the way.”_

_Silence fell and the two boys lay still, flat on their backs, high above the city on the roof of Steve’s apartment building._

Steve’s exhale clouded the air between him and the stars, before he blinked, found those seven stars—three down the handle, the four that made up the cup. His eyes traced the line from one star to another upwards from the Dipper… there.

He stood alone on Brooklyn Bridge, high above the water, in the darkness, alone, his eyes fastened on that single diamond, glittering in the blackness of space.

 _Kukho iinkwenkwezi ezilikhulu ukukukhokela, kodwa enye kuphela iya kukukhokela ekhaya._ There are a hundred stars to guide you, but only one will lead you home.

“God.”

The whisper vaporized on the cold air, a single word, and he suddenly knew there was no need for more. He stood there for a long time, but somehow, he was no longer alone.

As he walked home it was other voices that sang the words, whispering to his aching heart:

_Silent night, holy night_

_All is calm, all is bright…_

It had been hours since he left his truck at the church, and he crossed an empty, silent parking lot, climbed in, let the engine warm. Dawn would be here soon.

His apartment was just as dark, just as quiet, and as he stood by the kitchen table, staring at the glowing numbers on the microwave—5:21—he knew he would not be spending his Christmas here. Not this year.

He took his time, warming up with a shower and three cups of black coffee. He would get there just before sunrise; just before the first of the kids would be allowed to make their way downstairs to the living room, where he’d helped set up the ten-foot Christmas tree last week.

He remembered the way the lights he helped string reflected in the children’s wide eyes…

By late afternoon, a kind of peace had settled over the big old house-turned-orphanage, and Steve felt the weariness dragging at his insides. He paused in the doorway to the big living room, where _Frozen_ was playing on the television and Nat was sitting in the middle of the crowd. One little girl sat in her lap, while she showed another teen girl, Brianna, how to do something with a makeup kit she’d been given.

Natasha had shown up partway through the morning, not really saying anything, but the way she stood in Steve’s hug for a minute longer told him what he needed to know. Now she glanced over to give him a smile, and he knew she had caught it too; the magic that still glowed in innocent eyes, the joy that was only dimmed, not quenched, by tears.

Steve managed a half-smile back, before he moved on, looking for Kyle and his younger brother Jonathan, who had disappeared at least an hour ago. Kyle was one of the oldest kids here; almost 17, a natural leader, and immensely protective of his little brother. Steve had noticed how hard he worked to keep Jonathan smiling that day.

Steve was on the third floor, walking past mostly quiet bedrooms, when he caught the sound of soft music: _…world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing._

It was coming from the room with a Star Wars poster on one wall, and Harry Potter on the other. They were curled up on Kyle’s bed, arms around each other, apparently asleep; the music came from Kyle’s phone set on the nightstand. Steve saw the flushed cheeks, the faint tear tracks on Kyle’s face, the way his head rested on his little brother’s shoulder… and his heart ached.

As quietly as possible, he took the comforter off Jonathan’s bed—shifting a pile of presents to do so—and gently covered the boys with it. Jonathan stirred, squinted up at him, but Steve touched a finger to his lips. He saw a kind of relief in the nine-year-old’s face, before he closed his eyes again, settling closer to his brother, resting his cheek on the top of Kyle’s head.

Steve stood by the bed, watching them breathe, remembering that his wasn’t the only world that had stopped spinning; he wasn’t the only one walking in the dark.

A tug on the leg of his pants, and he turned, looking down into Rose’s wet brown eyes. She clutched a teddy bear in one arm, and lifted the other hand in an unmistakable gesture, even as her lower lip trembled.

“Hey,” he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear him, and he caught her up, cradled her close against his chest. Her free arm went around his neck, as she buried her face somewhere between his sweater and the teddy bear’s head.

“Hey, shh,” he murmured, stroking her hair, straightening her shirt, and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. A hiccupy sob escaped her, and Steve closed his eyes, took a long breath.

_What child is this, who laid to rest_

_On Mary’s lap is sleeping? …_

He began to hum, as he paced softly from the boys’ room, into the empty hallway. He wondered suddenly what the woman who had donated this mansion to the church would think if she could see her hall: a few crayon drawings and other pictures held to the walls with sticky-tack; some stray socks; an abandoned remote-controlled race car; some of the bedroom doors repainted, including one in purple and black stripes; a one-eyed sock monkey, sitting on top of the overstuffed armchair by the window at the end of the hall.

He knew she had lost all her immediate family, including four kids, to Thanos, and had left for the mid-west to live with her sister, almost the only person she had left. He hoped she would be happy that these children, at least, had somewhere warm and safe to live, thanks to her.

_So, bring Him incense, gold, and myrrh_

_Come peasant, king to own Him…_

Steve let himself hear their voices, like he hadn’t dared to last year, mixed with the sound of Wanda’s guitar. He could see the flames dancing in the eyes of Nontasasa, Khanyiswa, Sam. Feel Bucky’s weight against his shoulder, Mabhuti warm and sleeping in his lap.

_…Raise, raise a song on high_

_The Virgin sings her lullaby_

_Joy, joy for Christ is born_

_The Babe, the Son of Mary_

Involuntarily, he tightened his hold on Rose, who sniffled, and slumped against him, letting out a gusty sigh.

Steve rested his cheek against her hair. _I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry any of this ever had to happen._

He stood in the hallway, swaying gently with the music, now singing, just loud enough for her to feel the vibrations through his chest where her head rested.

_“I’m dreaming tonight, of a place I love_

_Even more than I usually do._

_And although I know it’s a long road back_

_I promise you…”_

He had to close his eyes, because he had promised, hadn’t he? He’d promised Bucky, all those years ago, and now… Bucky was the one who’d made it home. For good, this time.

_“Christmas Eve will find me,_

_Where the lovelight gleams…”_

He could see the glow in Sharon’s brown eyes, the way she cocked her head, licking foam off the finger she had just dipped in his hot chocolate. They’re only chance to do Christmas had been a month early, but they hadn’t cared, as long as they got to spend that one day together.

_“I’ll be home for Christmas,_

_If only in my dreams.”_

Rose felt weightless in his arms, even as the pain settled on his shoulders, and the exhaustion dragged him down. In the hush following the song, he moved toward the window and sank down in the armchair, leaning back to let Rose settle against him, fast asleep now. He closed his eyes against the burn.

The next song was a soft blanket gently laid over them.

_Are you far away from home?_

_This dark and lonely night?_

_Tell me what best would help_

_To ease your mind._

_Someone to give direction for_

_This unfamiliar road._

_Or one who says ‘Follow Me,_

_And I will lead you home.’_

Outside the window, a blue winter twilight settled over Brooklyn. Lights flickered on in windows, small spots of gold set against the shadows.

Like the child he held safe in his arms, Steve finally slept.

***

Christmas Day 2023

Bucky didn’t know why he woke.

The room was dark, and the wind had dropped. He could hear the furnace click off, and fumbled a hand out from under the blankets to grab his phone off the floor. 4:48.

With a sigh, he rolled on to his back, pulling the blankets up to his chin, and glanced over to make sure Steve was sleeping alright.

Oh, that must have been it. The other side of the mattress was empty.

He sat up, slowly, cocking his head to listen.

The bedroom that they’d been camping out in for the last few weeks, since the heat got fixed up, was across the hall from the bathroom, so he should be able to hear easily if someone was in there. But the creak of a floorboard came from downstairs, followed by the faintest strains of music, and he frowned. What the heck could Steve be doing?

They’d gotten home from the midnight service at Grace (it was still a wonder to Bucky that they could attend the same church they’d grown up with. “Some things stay the same,” the pastor, Renn Peterson, had said, eyes twinkling. “Specially when God’s involved.”) sometime after 2. The plan was to have brunch with Sam’s clan late Christmas morning, then make the 4-and-a-half-hour drive to Sharon’s parents’ place in Virginia where they would have the big feast and spend the night.

With the glow of the candles, and the voices of the congregation, underscored by Steve’s strong tenor, still at the front of his mind, Bucky had quickly drifted off to sleep. But apparently it hadn’t been so easy for Steve.

Almost silently, Bucky rose to his feet, stepping off the mattress onto the floor. The room was dark enough, but there was basically no furniture to run into; only one old straight back chair, their duffle bags, one large box of books against the far wall, and the Queen-sized mattress they slept on. Until they got through the majority of the renovations, there wasn’t much point in furniture, beyond the bare necessities. 

He pulled on the socks he’d left on top of his duffle, grabbed a blanket off the bed to drape over his shoulders, padded from the room. As he descended the stairs, he saw the glow of light spilling from the living room into the downstairs hall.

The little Christmas tree they had cut the day after they moved in, and decorated in all the old-fashioned ways they remembered, glowed warmly in its corner. Steve had rebuilt the fire, and he sat in front of the hearth on the bare wood floor, arms wrapped around his legs, chin on his knees, staring into the flames. The music played from a radio/CD player set near an electrical outlet in the wall.

Bucky paused in the doorway, watching, and his heart clenched at how small and lonely Steve looked there. _Please, God, not one of those nights, not now._ He took a breath, let it out hard through his nose, and as he took a step, Steve jerked his head around.

The smile was small and crooked, but it _was_ a smile, and some of the worry stirring in Bucky’s stomach eased off. “I was trying _not_ to wake you,” Steve said, tilting his head back to look up at his friend.

“Just like the old days then,” Bucky said, sinking down cross-legged next to Steve, and leaning to bump shoulders. “You and me, rattling around our place– ‘Cept this is actually all yours. And it’s not exactly a matchbox apartment in Brooklyn.”

“What, you wish it was?”

Bucky stared at Steve’s profile, watching the firelight play over his face, the lines and shadows that the last five years had written there. “No,” he said softly. “I’m happy right where I am.”

He could not identify the noise Steve made, but he knew the way Steve sagged against him, and did not hesitate, pulling his metal arm out from between them, wrapping it and the end of the blanket around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in close.

Steve’s sigh, as he settled against Bucky’s side, head on his shoulder, was shaky, and Bucky reached across with his other hand, gently brushing the hair off Steve’s forehead.

“What’s wrong?”

The only reply was a damp sniff, and Bucky closed his eyes, turned his head to press a kiss against Steve’s hair. And then he was crying quietly into Bucky’s t-shirt.

It wasn’t a hard or long cry, and Bucky said nothing except with his hands, alternating between stroking Steve’s hair, and rubbing his back. When the shudders had melted out of Steve’s big shoulders, and the tears had dropped to sniffles, he felt Steve’s long exhale, before the other man shifted slightly. Bucky heard him open his mouth, and beat him to it.

“Nuh uh, no ‘sorry’s from you, pal.” He thought he heard amusement in Steve’s huff. “It’s what I’m here for, same as you.”

Steve was shaking his head, even as he leaned back into Bucky, now sliding down so his head and shoulders rested in Bucky’s lap. Glancing down, Bucky saw a faint smile curl his lips.

“You’re a jerk.”

Bucky smirked. “And you’re a punk. Look, you didn’t even put a sweater on. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

Steve’s blind swipe missed Bucky’s chin, hitting him in the chest, and now Bucky allowed a small chuckle to slip out.

Clearly, they were going to be here for a while, so Bucky pulled the blanket around to cover the rest of Steve, and settled himself with his left arm draped over Steve’s side, his right tucked under Steve’s head.

Bucky didn’t even think of the emptiness of the big house surrounding them, not when he was curled up by a fire with his oldest and best friend who also happened to be like a small space heater himself, with the music of Christmas playing in the background.

Oh. Oh, yeah, he knew this song.

It was good old Bing, crooning the words laden with longing and hope:

_I’ll be home for Christmas_

_You can plan on me_

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents on the tree…_

He sensed that Steve had gone still, listening too. Remembering, maybe.

Bucky remembered. He remembered carols rising with sparks into the Wakandan sky. He remembered Steve holding him close like he never wanted to let go again. He remembered the smell of coffee, and two young men singing, and the terrible pain of bone-deep loneliness mixed with crippling shame. He remembered a fire, and a violin, and a dark tent, and his own whispered question: _“Promise?”_

_…Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the love-light gleams_

_I’ll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams_

Steve had turned his head into Bucky’s leg, hiding his expression, but Bucky let his right hand drift up to press against Steve’s chest, felt the powerful, steady beat.

“You kept your promise, you know,” he murmured, staring into the orange-gold glow that flickered and danced and never changed. “You did get us home. For Christmas. Even if it took a little longer than we thought.”

The _tha-dump, tha-dump_ under Bucky’s palm quickened slightly. “All these years.” Bucky’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And you still keep your promises.”

Steve was pulling away suddenly, sitting up, his breath coming quickly. He shook his head, and the look in his eyes was a knife to Bucky’s heart.

“And for how long?”

The words hung between them for a moment, before Steve’s shoulders dropped and he turned away, curling back up on himself, the way he had before Bucky entered the room.

“How long until it’s gone again? How long until… I lose you this time? Every time, I try again, I get you back, and then…” His voice dried up, and Bucky saw his lips tremble before he pressed them together.

“No.” Bucky shook his head hard. “No, Steve, you can’t–” He closed his eyes. “You can’t think like that.”

No sound from Steve, and Bucky gave a sharp sigh, stared over at the set of his shoulders. There was really only one thing he knew to do now. He reached out, grasping Steve’s shoulders, and turning him ‘til his back was to Bucky. At the same time Bucky turned toward Steve, straightening his legs out, so that Steve was now sitting between Bucky’s legs. Steve made no move to resist as Bucky wrapped his arms around him, pulling him back against his chest.

He felt Steve shift, then slump against him, his head resting against Bucky’s sternum. Bucky grabbed one end of the blanket, pulling it around so it mostly covered both of them. 

“Please, Stevie. Don’t. Don’t be… afraid.” His arms tightened across Steve’s chest. “I mean, God knows I’m… _not_ God.” A little huff of laughter, before he pressed his cheek against Steve’s hair, hugging him close, taking in the smell of him, the _life_ of him. “But, Stevie. If ever there was a time to hope, to… dream. It’s now. It’s Christmas. I mean… just you wait, okay?” He stared into the flames, letting the light paint the pictures in his head.

“Just you wait. Next year this place’ll be full of people, and food, and we’ll have your art on the walls, and you’ll be kissing Sharon under the mistletoe, just like you will this year, except you’ll be married then, and then the year after that… Heck, you’ll probably have a kid, and that’ll make everything kinda crazy, but totally amazing too, and then another bunch of years and you’ll have kids all over the place,”—and now Steve was laughing—"and there’ll be piles of presents under a nice big tree, and there’ll be toys on the floor to trip over and messes in the kitchen and people will be laughing and you… you’ll be so busy and happy… you won’t have room for fear.”

Bucky fell silent, wondering if that last bit came out sounding odd.

Steve sighed, and he turned his head, cheek pressing against Bucky’s chest. He was smiling, but there was something unsteady about it. “And you? Where will you be in all that?”

“Oh, sitting by the fire, drinking your beer, and eating your food, and spoiling your kids. If you’ll let me. Long as you want me to.”

He could have bitten his tongue. Really. After all this time, after everything Steve had done and told him over and over again, he still doubted? He still wondered if Steve truly wanted him to stay beside him?

In ducking his head, he almost cracked it against Steve’s, who was sitting up suddenly. He felt Steve turning to stare at him, and then he was moving, scrambling around to kneel in front of Bucky who now took his turn to pull away, turning back to the fire.

The lump in his throat made it hard to breathe, because just as hard as he wanted to smack himself for sounding so stupid, he also ached for reassurance, to hear Steve say it once more. Just… because.

Steve was still for maybe half-a-dozen heartbeats, before he reached for the blanket where it had fallen. Bucky hid his face in his arms, as Steve draped the blanket across his back, tucking it in around his shoulders, so gentle. The next thing Bucky felt was Steve’s arms, one across his back, one sliding under his knees. So strong, but he thought he sensed some tightly controlled emotion vibrating through the other man, as he pulled Bucky close.

Now sitting sideways on the floor between Steve’s legs, his shoulder pressed tightly against Steve’s chest, Bucky let himself slowly melt into Steve’s embrace. He felt Steve’s breath on his ear, as he bowed his head over Bucky’s.

“You’d _better_ be there,” he whispered, and there was an almost childish fierceness to the words. “You’d better be. Right there in the middle, you hear me?” Steve’s laugh had a choke in it. “Bucky– It wouldn’t be home without you.”

He pulled back then, and took Bucky’s face in his hands, turning it gently to his. The fire gleamed on the tears that pooled in his eyes, a light that warmed Bucky in an instant, and he clung to that light with his own eyes.

“I need you. There. Here. Wherever. There’s always a place for you with me. Always. As long as you’ll have it. Please.” And now it was Steve with the traitorous plea in his voice. “Don’t leave me.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, opened them to a blur, feeling like he’d had the wind knocked out of him, and yet the pain in his chest was the sweetest of aches. _Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve…_ He didn’t know if he would be able to say a thing, but he’d sure as hell try.

He turned his body just a little more toward Steve, lifted his metal hand to rest on the back of Steve’s head, pulling it down to press their foreheads together. His other hand he pressed over Steve’s heart.

“I can’t.” He barely managed to swallow, but it didn’t really help. “I can’t leave you. I’m stuck.” He tapped one finger against Steve’s breastbone. “Right here. I couldn’t leave you if I tried.”

“To the end of the line?”

Bucky felt the smile coming. “To the end of the line.”

Steve’s whisper was so soft it was almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire and the music on the radio. “Promise?”

Bucky couldn’t hold back his tears or his laughter, so he threw his arms around Steve, and buried his face in the other man’s t-shirt, holding on with all the love and strength that poured from his heart.

_“Promise.”_

They fell asleep there, bundled together like a couple of kids—minus the couch cushions; fell asleep to dream.

And they woke in the light of a Christmas morning sunrise, flooding through the front window, bathing them in a golden light.

The fire had died to a few coals, but the radio was still playing.

_Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!_

_Let men their songs employ;_

_While fields & floods, rocks, hills & plains_

_Repeat the sounding joy_

_Repeat the sounding joy_

_Repeat, repeat the sounding joy_

How could just another sunrise, look so completely new? Bucky wondered, blinking and rolling a crick out of his neck. He never thought an almost bare room, in a house as old as them, could look so beautiful.

Bucky saw the way Steve turned his face toward it, saw him smile, as he rose to his feet. When he turned to look down at Bucky, the light was in his eyes, and Bucky was smiling back.

He caught Steve’s offered hand, and was hauled to his feet—straight into a hug, which he happily returned.

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”

“Merry Christmas, Stevie.”

∞ ∞ ∞

_Bucky is crying. He can’t help it._

_Steve must feel the dampness seeping into his t-shirt, because he pulls back slightly, brushes his thumb across Bucky’s cheek._

_“What’s wrong?” His voice is low and suddenly anxious._

_Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing,” he whispers. “That’s just it._ Nothing.”

_He cannot explain that ‘nothing’, not in words._

_He sees Jamie standing tall, holding his candle, singing alone at the front of the church, in the holy awe of the hour after midnight._

_Ellie’s face glowing as she jumps into his arms and he twirls her around the room, the air filled with wrapping paper and laughter and the baby squealing._

_Steve and Sharon kissing under the mistletoe._

_The picture Sam sent, of him and his brother and their step-dad, all piled together in the older man’s hospital bed, smiling through their last Christmas together._

_The circle of heads and hands and hearts around the table, around the feast—giving thanks._

_“We’re_ here,” _he chokes out. “We’re_ home.”

_A soft laugh escapes Steve, as he pulls Bucky close again, rubbing slow circles over his back with one hand._

_"We're home," he echoes. Because Bucky is right; Bucky has always been right._

Home. _Steve_ _rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, and sees it all._

_The sleeping dogs; the Christmas tree, covered in white lights and ornaments in a hundred shapes, sizes and colours, with decorated bags and boxes (all open now) still strewn around it’s base; Steve’s art mixed with family photos on the walls; and on the mantlepiece above the fire, in it’s place of honour, the hand-carved manger scene Kyle and Jonathan had given them a decade ago._

_The three wise men and a reverent camel to one side, the little crowd of shepherds and sheep to the other, Joseph, Mary, Jesus…_

_The fire burns strong and steady, casting its friendly glow over it all._

_Bucky sniffs, sighs, wipes his sleeve across his face. He too turns to face the light, standing under Steve’s right arm, head tilting against Steve’s shoulder._

_“Hey, you two…”_

_Steve glances back to see Sharon standing in the doorway. Her hair is still mostly in a ponytail, but wisps are hanging around her face. Her sleeves have been pushed up to her elbows, there is a burp cloth draped over her shoulder, and the knees of her khaki’s are wet._

_“Kids are ready for bed,” she says. “Just waiting on stories, or lullabies, or goodnight kisses. Or all of the above.”_

_This is how he likes her best: the sweet, unassuming, girl-next-door who first caught his eye, but with a quiet strength that has been his anchor now through many a storm. She needs no makeup to look beautiful._

_Steve holds out his hand and she smiles, comes to him, takes the place under his other arm. He knows, without seeing, that she reaches across his back to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder, before slipping her arm around Steve’s waist. He ducks his head to brush his lips across her cheek, inhale her scent of babies and chocolate and the ever-present lavender._

_He feels the love beat up inside him, and he cannot speak. He only holds them close; his wife, his brother, his children, his family… And he wishes, just for a moment, that the world could stop turning, right here, on this moment._

_"He really outdid himself this year," Sharon says softly to Bucky, gesturing at the painting Steve had hung on the chimney that morning._

_"No kidding," Bucky murmurs back._

_Steve is not looking at the painting, he is watching them. No painting could compare to what he sees there: the firelight dancing in Sharon’s eyes, in Bucky’s eyes. The lines are soft in their faces, and they are smiling, and Steve is smiling too._

_“Dad?”_

_It is a child’s voice that tells him, reminds him that the world is still spinning, and they all turn. Sarah blinks, shoves her hands into the pockets of her pajama pants. “Are you coming, or what? And JoJo wants Uncle Bucky to turn the glowies on.”_

_Steve laughs, swoops her up, smacks a kiss on her cheek. “We’re coming.”_

_In the quiet room they leave behind, the dogs settle once more, even Ariel relaxing. Her family is happy and safe. She lets her eyes drift all the way shut, but one ear stays cocked toward the sound of the people going upstairs. The other twitches in the direction of the stereo, where a new song is playing:_

All is well  
All is well  
Angels and men rejoice  
For tonight darkness fell  
Into the dawn of love's light  
Sing Ale  
Sing Alleluia...

**Author's Note:**

> 2033 (opening):  
> (inspiration) "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by Josh Groban  
> 2012:  
> "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by Amy Grant  
> 2015:  
> (inspiration) "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by Rascal Flatts  
> 2019:  
> "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by Brad Paisley  
> "Christmas Lullaby (I Will Lead You Home)" by Amy Grant  
> 2023:  
> "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by Bing Crosby  
> 2033 (ending):  
> "All Is Well" by Michael W. Smith
> 
> Thanks for reading. Hope that was written okay. :)  
> Kudos+comments always appreciated.  
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone! See ya round!


End file.
